


A Brief Story of Dying

by Rector



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Mycroft Being Mycroft, Other, POV Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8564722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rector/pseuds/Rector
Summary: A belated Hallowe'en tale.





	

Mycroft Holmes was rarely unwell. He had little time for human frailties of any kind, physical illness among them. Others around him might fall by the wayside of course; it was the nature of the masses to be susceptible to the ailings of the flesh, but not he. He had no time, no place for anything other than flawless good health or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Nor did he ever suffer the usual winter colds and coughs; he travelled in air-conditioned comfort and his working hours kept him in the most pleasant of environs. The various offices in which he spent any length of time usually required air-scrubbers and filters to ensure the atmosphere in these locations remained appropriately super- clean for the assembled high-tech. The Palace, naturally, was always impeccable; Her Majesty's chambers fragrant with both fresh air and fresh flowers. Additionally, by this point in his career, Ministers and Heads of Security programs usually came to _him_. The only place where the air might not be as untainted or clean as good heath demanded was in the private offices of the Houses of Parliament. On the few occasions he was required to attend a meeting there, he breathed as little as possible.

It had been a fundamental shock to the system when, due to a number of lesser personnel succumbing to one of the prevailing ailments, his presence was necessitated at a Heads of National Security meeting in Accra, Ghana. It was only to be a short meeting, but all those with the authority to sign-off on the eventual agreement were too unwell to fly. Mycroft permitted himself a brief sigh, though he did not condemn his staff for causing this somewhat irritating divergence from scheduled arrangements. Falling ill was the way of the herd, though it was not his way. Raising his eyebrows at the unavoidable delay the four-day trip to Ghana would entail, he realised that at least he'd be able to catch up on his paperwork during the six-hour each way flight. One could read and sign a great many documents in twelve hours.

The small private jet took him and a few select officials direct from London to Kotoka, Accra's main airport. From there, they were ferried in two of the President's own limousines to the Presidential palace, Flagstaff House, where guest quarters awaited them in the east wing of the building. That this also happened to be the headquarters of Ghana's national security service, the Bureau of National Investigations, did not go unobserved.

Meetings took place either within the palace itself or in an external venue at Osu Castle, which had been the President's previous official residence. Everything they ate and drank was carefully prepared and screened. Everyone with whom they came into contact was checked and vetted. The brief visit accomplished its objectives and the small group was ready to return home. With a final handshake and his usual brief polite smile, Mycroft Holmes stepped back onto the little private jet and made ready to fly to London, already having decided on the reading material for the journey. Unfortunately, he never read any of it. Somewhere in between arriving at and the leaving of Kotoka airport, Mycroft Holmes had been introduced, albeit unknowingly, to a very unpleasant little virus.

The first signs were a low headache, with a growing thirst and a slightly raised temperature. Mycroft was uncomfortable but relatively unconcerned. It had been a busy two days of talking; he probably needed to rehydrate. Accepting the several small bottles of chilled water the steward provided, he opened up his laptop as the small jet became airborne, but found he could not properly focus on the screen. There was something wrong with the images as they blurred and swam no matter how many times he blinked and rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he really had been overdoing things. He wasn't as young as he once was and it was entirely conceivable he had pushed things a little too far. Work could hold until he was once more in his personal office. He would therefore rest and recuperate. Lots of water and some rest and he'd be perfectly fine. He closed his eyes and lay back against the sumptuously padded leather seats. By the time the jet reached Heathrow, he had a temperature of 104 and was already sliding into the early stages of coma.

###

Hearing was the first sense to return, uncertain and muted. At some point, Mycroft began to catch a slow but constant beeping nearby, though at times it sounded distant and faint. After listening for several minutes, he recognised it for what it was; a hospital heart rate monitor. If it were his, no doubt there would be several small electrodes attached to his abdomen, though for the life of him, he could not feel them. Nor could he understand why he was here, in this state. An uncontrollable burning tremor ran through his body and the beeping slowed and became erratic. An intense wave of nausea and pain washed over him and he had to grit his teeth not to groan aloud. Even his teeth hurt, as did his jaw, the inside of his mouth, his ears and every part of his face. There was a constant soft pressure on the back of his head and shoulders, which made him think he was lying down somewhere. _Ah_. This must be what illness felt like. How unpleasant.

It was dark. Was it really dark or was it that he simply couldn't see? Trying to open his eyes was a step too far and the pain and sickness welled up inside until he was unable to stem the hissed cry of pain and misery.

"Quiet now," a low and faintly accented female voice was suddenly gentle at his ear, the sensation of something cool laid across the burning skin of his forehead. "This will pass, it will all pass but you cannot force it," the woman continued. "Lie as still as you can and go with the flow. Offer no resistance. Let the machines do their job to help you. Lie still, now."

" _Where ..?_ " Despite the advice to stay silent, Mycroft had to know. Where was he? Who was this strange voice? What was wrong with him? _What was going on?_

"You're in the University College hospital for infectious diseases," the woman's words were soft in his ear once again, as if she somehow knew all the questions he needed to ask. "You are very ill and I'm looking after you."

So the woman was a nurse. Mycroft wanted to will the pain and suffering away, think it gone as he had had to do for so many other things in his life. He should be able to do this; it was only a matter of focus ... he shuddered again as a fresh surge of agony and nausea wiped all cognisant thought from him. It was all he could do to hang on to consciousness. He had never experienced such lack of control before in his life. His complete helplessness was almost as troubling as everything else. Mycroft tried to speak again but the pain and blackness welled up and even that small decision was removed from him.

###

"Mycroft. _Mycroft_. You must open your eyes now. Open your eyes, Mycroft. I need to wash them out or they will become infected and you might lose the ability to see properly. Open your eyes for me, Mycroft."

The woman's voice again. The nurse. Sounded Scottish. What was a Scottish nurse doing in a London hospital? Mycroft heard something about opening his eyes but he had no control of anything. Where were his eyes? Did he have eyes anymore? All he could feel was burning heat and pain and an overwhelming desire to fall back down into the darkness where nothing hurt and he was away from this place of fire and horror.

"Open your bloody eyes, Mycroft. _I know you can hear me, damn you_. Open your damn eyes so I can stop you going blind."

Such language for a member of the nursing profession. Had he not felt so poorly, he would have taken the woman to task. Of course he'd open his bloody eyes if he could only work out how to make that happen. He couldn't even feel where they were ... there seemed to be a disconnect between the thought and the deed. Wait ... perhaps if he did _this_ ... He felt something move on a remote part of his face, something that allowed vague shapes to interrupt the endless plain of greyness in which he lay. There was movement of sorts as something pale came closer in the shadows. He felt a cool touch on his face as liquid was poured into his semi-open eyes, though he could not really feel it. It was a distant sensation at best. More cool dampness eased the dryness of his lips, but everything was burning and scorching and unbearable.

"Try sucking on this," the woman's soft highland brogue returned as he felt something soft and cold intrude into his mouth. Clamping his lips together took an age to accomplish but then there was the faint sensation of liquid moistening in his mouth and throat, a divine coolness that broke through at least a fraction of the searing heat and dryness. The woman had given him something soaked in water, allowing him to absorb the liquid without choking. It was wonderful. She knew exactly what he needed. She was amazing, even if she did swear at her patients.

"Who are you?" his words were an arid croak but it was enough.

"My name's Jean," the woman sounded very close. "Jean McKenna. I need you to do exactly as I say. You are very ill Mycroft and you must do everything I say."

"Am I very ill?" Mycroft had always preferred the plain truth. There was a lengthy pause.

"You are dying, Mycroft," the soft highland lilt held a sadness. "But I will do what I may to see you through this, if you will let me."

"Don't want to die ..."

"Nobody wants to die, my friend," the Scottish burr was more pragmatic than sad this time. "But you are very ill and already at the limits of the drugs that can be given you."

"What is it?" though it felt as though the inside of his head was about to explode and engulf the rest of his body in great consuming flames, Mycroft wanted to know what had the temerity to try and kill him. He vaguely hoped it was something worthwhile dying for.

"You have the Lassa virus, Mycroft. It's a form of haemorrhagic fever and it's killing you."

Through thick clouds of delirium, he wondered what the woman was doing in the same room as he. West African Haemorrhagic fever was hugely contagious. What was anyone doing this close to him, touching him, washing him, _breathing the same air as him ..?_

"I've already had the disease, Mycroft," again, the woman seemed to know what he was thinking even as the questions arrived in his head. "You can't see right now, but you are in a level four quarantine lab; an entire wing of this hospital has been closed off for you."

" _Dangerous_ ..." he wanted to say more but the heat inside him rose once again and he welcomed the darkness.

###

There was movement of some kind, as his body swayed through a shimmering curtain of fire and pain. A sensation of being carried and placed on a firmer surface, somewhere much cooler than where he'd been before. There was something washing over him, something colder than the unending furnace his body had become. Mycroft felt himself beginning to sink deeper into the floating embrace of liquid of some kind, but he couldn't see what it was, couldn't lift his head or struggle to keep breathing ... _he would drown_ ... they had left him and he would drown! His struggles were fitful and erratic.

"Calm yourself, Mycroft," Jean was beside him again and the sound of her voice took away the fear, whether rational or not. She knew what he needed, this Scottish nurse. He felt his terror fade and allowed his body to float more easily beneath the hands that held him.

" _What is this?_ " his words no more than a breathy whisper.

"They've put you in an ice bath," Jean slid a hand under his head, lifting fractionally so he no longer feared drowning. She knew his silent terror and took it from him. "Nothing else has been able to bring your temperature down and they're frightened of brain-damage," she spoke as softly as ever, her words almost musical in contrast to the harshness of his breathing. "Lie still, Mycroft and I'll see you come to no harm. Lie still and let the water take away the fire that burns you. I have you safe."

The last of his tension vanished as he felt himself turned slightly so that he rested more fully in her embrace, felt her touch on the skin of his face, the coolness of her fingertips leaving an invisible trail of comfort and peace. He no longer needed to fight the uncertainty of floating and abandoned all resistance in the arms of his Scottish nurse. He wondered if she had red hair. She sounded as though she might.

He must have slept, he realised. The surface beneath him was no longer hard but softer and pressed against his body all the way from head to heels. Back in bed, then. Had the iced water done its job or had his brain become as conventional as Sherlock's? Mycroft felt a faint amusement at the notion that little brother might actually be the smarter one at this point.

He felt something hot run down the skin of his face and tried to move but failed to lift so much as a finger. Nor could he call for help. Once again, the fear of the unknown rose in his chest and he wanted to rage and roar a defiance against the death that stalked him.

"You're bleeding from the mucosal membranes in your eyes and nose, Mycroft," jean was there in an instant as he sensed multiple hands working on blotting the sticky evidence away from his skin followed by the softest caress of a cool, damp cloth. When all this was over, he'd have Jean McKenna offered a job she could not possibly refuse. She had stuck with him since the very beginning of this ... event and had neither shied away from the revolting realities nor allowed him to rot in his own panic. She was a godsend of a companion and he would see her rewarded for it.

He felt the prick and sting of a needle in his arm and a sudden metallic taste in the back of his throat as the blackness returned.

###

He was able to open his eyes a little, viewing the tiny slice of the world that was immediately in front of his nose but little further. He could feel his heart beating fast, much faster than usual. It was probably the drugs Jean had told him about. Mycroft realised if he was anywhere near the reality of death, the doctors would be increasingly creative in the application of remedial approaches. Mycroft felt his eyelids flicker uncontrollably as a wave of light-headedness flowed through his body. He felt almost breathless with it. The heat was giving way to a strange numbness and even in his enfeebled state, he realised this was not a positive sign. His heart started to pound hard and rapidly and he wondered why things were spinning. He wasn't moving but he could swear he was tumbling. But where was he? How was he moving when it was all he could managed to raise his eyelids? Mycroft sucked in short pants of breath as his chest began to compress.

"It's alright, I'm here with ye," Jean was back, thank god. Though he still could not breathe without effort, the knowledge of Nurse McKenna's proximity had an enabling effect and, while he still suffered, the sharp edge of panic faded.

" _Can't breathe_ ," he wheezed. " _Heart fast_."

"Your body is going into circulatory shock," there was no alarm in her words, though the sadness was back.

"Am I dying again?" Mycroft felt he had given the battle a fair crack. If he had to die, Jean would surely see him competently off.

"You've been dying these past three days, ya great huddy," her tone somewhat acerbic, Mycroft felt his legs being raised just as an oxygen mask was pressed hard to his face.

" _He's crashing!_ " The words were distant and academic.

He felt the darkness rise once more.

###

The headache was back but at least he was able to breathe. Mycroft listened to the regular throb of his heart and was relieved that it seemed to be behaving more sensibly. Even the sensation of intolerable heat seemed to have lessened fractionally, though he was wise now to the vagaries of this disease: he would count no chickens.

"Yes, you're over the worst, but there's still aways to go," Jean's gentle voice was at the top of his bed. Clearly the woman had stayed with him since his last crisis.

"I think I owe you my life," Mycroft managed more or less of a croaked sentence this time, an obvious improvement. "Who are you?"

"Just someone who knows what ye've been going through," there was a hint of weariness in her voice. "Ye even have some of my antibodies floating around inside you, so dinna fash, now." He felt a great lethargy lay itself over him, his eyes closing even though they had barely opened.

"Don't go," he whispered.

"I'm here," he felt her touch on his hand.

Mycroft slept.

###

His knees trembled as he made to stand, the feel of woven cloth rough against his still over-sensitive flesh. It had been ten days since his admittance and this was the first time he'd been permitted to dress in anything more than the ridiculously short cotton hospital gown that covered nothing, least of all his dignity. He was still quarantined for another ten days, but Mycroft had managed to arrange the delivery of a laptop and a phone so at least he was once more able to make contact with the outside world. Both would be carefully incinerated upon his departure. Other than real clothing, his first request had been to meet the nurse who had literally held his hand through the entire experience. Merely offering his thanks would not be nearly enough.

Clad entire in a white sealed biohazard suit complete with oxygen tank and perspex-visored helmet, Doctor James Nahanu, infectious disease specialist, perched himself awkwardly in a chair in Mycroft's new quarters.

"Who?" he asked, frowning.

"Jean McKenna, the nurse who looked after me," Mycroft also sat as his knees threatened rebellion.

Looking thoughtful inside his Perspex fishbowl, Nahanu shook his head slowly. "Nobody here by the name of McKenna," he said. "I can ask around for you, if you wish?"

"I do wish," Mycroft felt a light sweat on his forehead. Attempting the suit had not been the wisest of notions, but he'd felt obliged to try. Perhaps a brief nap while he waited for the doctor to return.

The sound of his door being knocked woke him from a light sleep. A second, smaller biosuit walked into his room, pushing a small steel trolley covered in small vials and swabs sealed in multiple layers of plastic.

"Jean?" Mycroft raised himself a little from the bed.

"The name's Pippa, Mr Holmes," the bright young voice of a woman half his age sounded through the obscuring facemask. "Nobody here by the name of Jean, sorry. I need to take your obs and give you the next round of medications, if that's all right?"

"Then who is Jean McKenna?"

"No idea, Mr Holmes," Pippa the specialist quarantine nurse sounded determinedly cheerful. "Want me to find out for you?"

"Please do," Mycroft said no more, submitting himself to the various tests and tablets with a faint sigh. Dying had been bad enough; surviving the rest of this quarantine might not be so easy.

###

" _What?_ "

"Died more than two years ago, Mr Holmes," Nurse Pippa had returned with another trolley of delights. "Poor woman had the same thing as you, but then, of course, we didn't have the same drugs as we have now. Such a shame, really."

Dead? _Jean McKenna was dead?_

"How so?" he sat on the edge of his bed, all thoughts of resistance vanished.

"She was a brilliant doctor, from what I heard," Pippa fussed with a mouth swab. "Made a real name for herself in exotic medicine, then something went wrong and she ended up in this very hospital, though not as lucky as what you were, obviously." Nurse Pippa paused, awkward as she realised this was not the most cheerful of conversations to be having. "How come you know her name?"

How come indeed? Mycroft waited with barely concealed impatience until the young woman pushed her trolley back through the heavy sealed door, before turning to his laptop and ordering up a search on one Doctor Jean McKenna.

And there she was. Tall, very fair and with the red hair he had imagined.

_Death from complications of acute viral haemorrhagic fever. Doctor Jean McKenna spent her final days in the hospital she had laboured so hard to convince a quarantine ward was vital. Doctor McKenna was posthumously awarded the Queen's Gallantry Medal (QGM). A plaque was raised in her name and still graces the wall of the quarantine ward she designed and caused to be built._

###

There was indeed a plaque, a small one, embedded in the rear wall of the room in which he had first heard her soft brogue. _I have you safe_. Mycroft brushed a fingertip across the cool ceramic tile.

"You do indeed," he murmured, turning to the door and the living world beyond.


End file.
